


Mycelium

by sivib



Series: Sound of Silence [2]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: AU Amuse-Bouche, Deaf Character, Gen, Hannibal is Hannibal, Implied Cannibalism, Mushrooms, Not sure why the series count says part three, Premature Burial, audism, there are only two parts to the series so far
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-23
Updated: 2014-06-23
Packaged: 2018-02-05 20:59:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1832071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sivib/pseuds/sivib
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU of Amuse-Bouche, season 1, ep 2.  Hannibal is cultivating Will Graham, who is broken and isolated after an unsolved abduction five years ago.  The former homicide detective now lives with his unruly pack of strays in Wolf Trap, Virginia, gardening and fishing and trying to reconnect with the world.</p><p>A mysterious mushroom farmer and Jack Crawford get between Hannibal Lecter and Will, raising specters that neither man is prepared to deal with just now.</p><p>From Wikipedia: "Chi Zhi (Ganoderma rubra) is bitter and balanced. It mainly treats binding in the chest, boosts the heart qi, supplements the center, sharpens the wits, and [causes people] not to forget [i.e., improves the memory]. Protracted taking may make the body light, prevent senility, and prolong life so as to make one an immortal. Its other name is Dan Zhi (Cinnabar Ganoderma). It grows in mountains and valleys"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lingzhi

**Author's Note:**

> This will make much more sense if you have read "Refining Fire," the first story in what may be becoming a series. To sum up events: Will is deaf and has near-crippling PTSD. Jack Crawford enlisted Hannibal Lecter's assistance in drawing Will into the Minnesota Shrike case. Things happened, slightly differently, and Will killed Hobbs. And now we move onto episode 2.
> 
> With all thanks and praise to Bryan Fuller, Jim Gray (who wrote the screenplay I have been referencing the whole time I have been writing), Thomas Harris, and of course Mads and Hugh for bringing the characters to life in my imagination. 
> 
> I wrote this for me, but I hope someone enjoys reading my story as much as I enjoyed putting down the words.
> 
> The chapter titles are all different types of mushrooms, by the way. Wikipedia is a writer's best friend.

The rich earth was cool under Will’s hands.  He patted down a generous mound around a cilantro seedling, and reached for his trowel to dig a hole for the next.  Earthworms tumbled back to the soil as he crumbled it, poking their blind way back down into the dark.  A furry nudge at his side almost unbalanced him, and Khan, a three-legged terrier mix, scrambled under his arms to nose his way into the dirt.  Will laughed, and pushed him away.  _No.  Not dig.  Worms for plants, not dog._   Khan looked up at him with soulful eyes, and scrabbled away.  The line of cilantro lengthened by one.

His lettuce was looking nibbled, Will noted.  He had taken out the rabbit-proof fencing along one side of the garden yesterday, in preparation of this expansion.  Evidently, one of is lapine neighbors had braved Tiny’s wrath and ventured in last night.  Now that he looked, his red peppers seemed to be slightly depleted as well.  Damn rabbits were getting entirely too bold.  Maybe he’d have rabbit for supper tomorrow instead of fish.  It would make a nice change. 

The row done, Will moved to the carrots and started weeding.  It was surprising to him how calm he felt, working out in the bright day.  For the past five years, it seemed, his nerves had been in a constant state of hyperawareness.  To be sure, his Sig was poking him in the small of his back, and all his dogs were around, but he was working with his back to the road and his mind wandering down peaceful paths.  Strange to feel so free.

The dead weeds were beginning to pile up, thrown to the other side of the fence.  The first few, Lucy had brought back, great chocolate tail wagging.  He scratched the retriever’s ears and thrown them away again until she grew bored of the game and ran off to chase Tiny.  Winston was lying at Will’s side, as content as he in the warm sun.  Will leaned down to nuzzle the stray’s warm fur, sniffing up the faint smell of dust and dog and whatever he’d rolled in last.  Bath time, Will decided, and grinned as Winston licked his face. 

Then Winston looked up, ears perking, and barked.  Barked at something behind Will.

In an instant, he’d whirled to a crouch, gun out and aimed at the ground, ready.  His hands were gritty on the stock, but he’d held firm through worse.  A stranger stood at the corner of the house, looking startled.  It was a young woman, dressed in some sort of uniform.  Khaki and a blue shirt.  Wide eyes.  Dark skin.  Holding a package and talking, with her hands up.

No threat, Will told his stomach.  Bile roiled there, and his heart was thudding against her sternum.  A cold sweat pricked his skin, and he took a deep breath, lowering the gun slowly.  Winston had stopped barking and was grinning between the two humans, tongue out, waiting for his treat. 

With dirt-stained hands, Will flicked eye contact with the woman and covered his mouth and ear, shaking his head.  Most people understood what that meant, and the girl’s eyes widened in comprehension.  She lowered her hands and wrote something on her clipboard, then held it out, tentatively.

Will rose and wiped his hands on his jeans, stepping over the rows of leeks and radishes, and then over the short fence.  He pulled his own pad out and wrote, “Sorry.  You startled me.”  He handed it over in exchange for the clipboard.  The girl had written, “You shouldn’t be pointing guns at people, but I’m sorry I scared you.  I have a delivery for you.  I am a courier from the FBI.”  Interest piqued, he handed back the clipboard and looked at the girl with raised eyebrows.  He signed the clipboard when she handed it back to him and took a small package.  With a wave, backing away, the woman left. 

Jack had sent him a package.  The sweat was drying on Will’s brow, and his heart was settling down.  His shoulders were tense, though, and he looked around him to be sure there was no one else nearby.  The field was empty, but there was the other side of the house to consider.  Will put the package down on the back porch and drew his Sig.  Tapping his thigh, he called the pack to him with a whistle and did a circuit of the house.  No one, nothing but the retreating plume from the courier’s car.  He rounded the final corner, back in the back yard, and tucked his gun away once again.

After a quick rinse of his hands and feet, Will coiled up the hose and washed his tools, putting them away neatly.  He gave each dog a good scratch, administering treats to all.  He went inside. 

Sitting at the table, he disassembled his weapon, oiling each piece and checking the chamber for signs of rust or dirt.  He unloaded and loaded the clip, then the spare from his pocket.  He reassembled the gun and set it next to his right hand.  His still shaking right hand.  Will hated this, hated himself, hated that something as simple as a stranger coming up on his blind side would put that stranger in peril.   It was ten a.m., but Will reached for his new bottle of Jack and poured two fingers, drinking it down in a gulp.  It eased the shakes, spread a warm glow in his roiling gut.

Will told himself firmly he was stalling, and being childish.  The package sat on the table, waiting.  It was a plain, manila package, padded.  No postage, just his name.  It was slightly lumpy.  Pouring another measure, Will finally took out his pocket knife and slit the end.  He upended the envelope, letting the contents slide to the table with soundless thumps.  A phone, and a set of keys, and a folded piece of paper.

Will regarded the phone, which had a touch screen and an apple on the back.  Alana had tried to get him to buy a phone three years ago, when he had first joined her support group, but it had been out of his price range then and was now.  Besides, there wasn’t really anyone he’d wanted to talk to then.  Now, it seemed, Jack Crawford was pushing the issue.

The keys were another matter.  Will opened the note and read, “Call me when you get this.  My number is programmed in the phone.  I will wait for your text.  Jack.”

Before Will could bring himself to do just that, however, the phone buzzed on the table, dancing a little way across the scarred wood.  Will jumped, and then picked it up.  The screen was lit up and he read, **Hi, Mr. Graham**.

With slightly trembling fingers, Will typed, **Agent Crawford?**

**Yes. How are you today?**

People kept asking.  Will swallowed a bite of irritation, and then a sip of whiskey to wash it down.  **Just peachy.  I nearly shot your courier.  Tell her I said sorry again.  Why are you giving me a phone, and what are these keys to?**

**A car.  A jeep, to be precise.  It was impounded from a drug dealer last year and is just sitting in the motor pool, taking up space.  It is yours if you want it.  Please do not shoot my trainees.**

The phone was growing warm in his hand, and his palm ached.  Will realized he was holding it too tightly.  He set it down on the table and rose to get a glass of water.  His mouth was parched, and the scars around his lips were aching.  He’d been biting them, he realized, licking them.  Licking his wounds.  He rubbed his mouth, drying the moisture there, and downing the rest of the glass. 

On the table, the phone danced.  And kept dancing.

Will hung his head and blew out a breath, gathering his frayed nerves, and went back.

**Mr. Graham?**

**Mr. Graham?**

**Will?**

**Hello?**

Jack really didn’t like silence, Will thought.  He typed on the tiny screen, his calloused fingers feeling strange on the cool glass.  **I’m here.  I told you I don’t drive.**

**You have a Virginia driver’s license.  You can drive, and I might need you to do so.  But it is up to you.  Keep the phone?**

**Don’t give out the number to anyone.** Will excepted there were certain obligations that went with being a consultant for the FBI, but he didn’t have to like it. 

A window popped up on the screen, a talk bubble with dancing ellipses.  They went on for a while.  Finally, a new line of text popped up.  **Dr. Bloom has it.  I’m sorry.  I should have asked first.**

Will felt his world drawing in around him, felt the closeness of other people brushing against him.  He just wanted to be left alone, damn it.  Was that too much to ask?  He gritted his teeth and slammed the phone on the scarred tabletop.  Winston startled and slunk out the back door.  Will caught the movement from the corner of his eye, and felt guilty.  He hadn’t meant to scare his dog. 

Forcing himself to calm, he picked up the vibrating phone.  A series of **Will?** scrolled down the screen.  He typed, **Sorry.  I’m here.  You should have asked, but it is ok.  Please don’t give it to anyone else.  I need to control who has access to me, otherwise this is not going to work.**

**Agreed.  Call me if there is anything I can do for you, ok?**

**Ok.  Bye now.**

Will rubbed the smudged screen clean and slid it into his pocket.  He knew it would make communication with the hearing world easier, but he already hated the thing.  Anyone could reach into his life, now, demanding information, services, or just to “chat.”  Will hated chatting.  He’d never, even before his…even before….  He’d never talked a lot.  In a lot of ways, his life was easier now.  No one expected him to make small talk, or contribute to conversations.  No one chided him for being too quiet.  They left him alone, which was how he liked things.  People were weird, and Will had never understood all the rules of social convention, even as a child.  Now, he didn’t need to.

Except, it seemed, he did.  Especially if Jack ever got around to discussing that teaching position with him.  Will shuddered, and finished his whiskey. 

The sun was climbing in the sky.  A soft breeze blew through the open back door, carrying the scent of turned earth, wet dog, and something spicy and warm.  Male and somehow familiar.  Winston came trotting back in, muddy to the belly, and nosed Will’s hand, his muzzle wet and trilling faintly against Will’s palm.  That had become the dog’s signal that someone was here.  Will turned in his chair and saw Dr. Lecter standing just outside the back door.

^^^

Hannibal had expected to be met with a raised weapon.  He raised his hands as Will twisted to face him, and was gratified to see that sun-warmed face break into a smile.  There was a touch of red on Will’s cheeks, and a smear of mud across his forehead and staining his bare feet.  “You have been working in your garden?  I saw the fence was down.”  His hands danced through the signs as he spoke.  “Your tomatoes look wonderful, although the lettuce is a bit ragged.”

_Rabbits. Hunt tonight.  Rabbit stew tomorrow._   Will smiled faintly, his eyes not quite meeting Lecter’s.  _You like rabbit?_

“Very much.  I have a recipe for a rabbit terrine with green olives and pistachios I have been wanting to try,” Hannibal said, approvingly.  Hunting was his favorite way to deal with nuisances.

_Not catch all that, but you can have extras.  I skin._   Will rose and gestured outside.  _Not think you come today.  You here Jack tell._ He shook his head and grimaced, adjusting his hands.  _You here because Jack told you come here?_

Lecter was mildly irritated at the thought that Jack Crawford would send him anywhere, but hid the emotion with a shake of his head.  “No, I am here because I want to be here.  I have office hours this afternoon and I thought this would be a convenient time for our discussion.  I would have called ahead, but I don’t have your number.”

Will’s smile turned bitter, as though he had bitten down on a persimmon.  _Jack not give you too?  Gave Bloom._   He reached into his pocket and pulled out a new-looking iPhone.  _I not know number._   He handed it across, then went to wash his hands.  Taking a scrub brush to his nails, Will washed away the remains of his gardening.  Lecter pointed to his own brow and mimed washing.  Will touched the streak of mud and grimaced, then collected a handful of water and washed his face.  There was a bare smudge remaining, and Lecter decided not to mention it.  It looked rather charming on that boyish brow.

He punched up the settings screen and noted the number, jotting it down for Will.  He tore the paper from his moleskin notebook and passed it over.  “May I program it into my phone?” he asked.

Will nodded, looking relieved.  _You ask.  Jack just gave.  Thank you._

Drying his face, Will gestured to the table.  _Hungry?  Make lunch?_

In answer, Lecter reached outside the back door and brought forward an insulated bag.  “Actually, I brought brunch.  I had hoped we might eat together.”  He removed two bowls and set them on the table, along with a tall thermos.  “I am very careful of what I put into my body, so I end up cooking for myself most of the time.  A protein scramble, to start the day.”

The eggs and sausage were still steaming as he opened the bowls, and their buttery fragrance wafted into the air of the tiny kitchen.  Will nodded and brought out mismatched cutlery.  _Looks good._

“With a tomato from your garden, it will be perfect.  I prefer my vegetables fresh, and there was no farmer’s market on the way here.”

Glad to be able to contribute, Will darted out the door and returned a moment later with a round, red heirloom tomato.  Washing it quickly at the tap, Will cut it into slices as Hannibal arranged the eggs and sausage (lungs and sage and a bit of paprika and onion) onto the chipped plates.

Will tucked in with gratifying appetite.  He paused in his shoveling to say, _Delicious.  You cook good._

“It is a passion, I will admit.”  Lecter took smaller bites, but savored the texture of the sausage.  The girl had been a necessary sacrifice, and her offering brought nourishment to body and mind.  Jack might not have understood Hannibal’s message, but Will had, that night on the porch.  He had made an intuitive jump that had been staggering, given his mental state at the time. 

Reminded, Hannibal took a sip of tea and then reached into his pocket and withdrew a folded sheet of paper.  He slid it over to Will and tapped it.

Will looked at it, then up at Hannibal.  _What this?_

_Read it._

Hannibal took a bite of juicy tomato, relishing the sweet, tart burst on his tongue.  It blended superbly with the spicy sausage and buttery egg.  Fresh ingredients really were superior to the pallid produce one found in stores.  And he never visited the meat department.  The thought of another’s clumsy butchery made him shudder inside.

Will’s eyes darted across the typed letters, and grew wide.  He looked up and said, _Psych report? We not talk yet._

“Jack Crawford can lay his weary head to rest knowing he did not break you, and our conversation can proceed unobstructed by paperwork.”  Lecter ate the last of his egg and drained his teacup.  “Uncle Jack has told me something of how you think, or how he thinks you think.  I do not believe therapy will work on you.  Stealing into other people’s minds has taught you how to fortify your own.”

Will’s eyes found his plate and he pushed it back, half of the food untouched.  He reached out and handed a bit of sausage to Winston, waiting patiently, tail wagging.  Lecter smiled to himself.  He had formerly kept his culinary offerings private, or shared them with choice companions, and enjoyed a thrill knowing who and what they were eating.  Feeding people to animals made a deliciously ironic switch.  Justice, of a sort.  He wondered if Will would appreciate the irony.

Lecter tapped the table to get Will’s attention.  “You have been alone in your mind a long time, Will.  Is it not lonely there, in the delicate arena of your skull?”

_Not enough._   Will pushed back from the table and gathered the plates, scraping leftovers into a dish on the floor.  Winston nosed into it instantly.  The other dogs whined outside the door, missing the treat.  Will rinsed the dishes and set them to dry, then leaned on his hands and glared at Lecter.  _Please do not psychoanalyze me._

There was fear behind the defiance.  The last time they had spoken privately, before the deadly events in Minnesota, Will had experienced a PTSD-fueled flashback.  It was understandable that he might dread another.  It was a pity that this was exactly the reaction Hannibal was hoping for.  But not now, not with gentle Will on his guard.  He needed to set the skittish man at ease.

Lecter schooled his body language to passivity, leaning back in the hard, ladder-back chair and resting his hands on the table.  Open.  Listening with eyes and mind.  Will’s hands didn’t move, but clenched on the counter-top.  His face was angry, although he didn’t glare directly at the older man.  His eyes rested on the sink, the walls, the window, the dogs; anywhere but Hannibal’s own eyes.

At length, Will’s hands relaxed and he said, to the air, _Sorry.  I understand this what you do. You not stop seeing me like I not stop seeing you.  Perception a tool with two points.  Hurts.  Hurt you?_

Hannibal felt gratified, and intrigued.  “Are you asking because you care, or to distract me?  I am here for you, Will.  Not you for me.”

A twitch of a smile on those scarred, chapped lips.  _You here for Jack._

_No._ Hannibal signed with emphasis, sitting forward.  _I here for you, Will.  You need a way out of dark places when Jack sends you there._

Wanting to both put Will at his ease, and notch up the tension just a bit, Hannibal rose and crossed to Will, standing across the counter from him.  He reached out and covered one of Will’s fisted hands with his own.  After barely a moment, Will pulled away, hugging himself and backing to the opposite wall.  Feigning remorse, Hannibal said, “I am sorry, Will.  I had forgotten you do not like to be touched.”  He rubbed the back of his neck and turned away.  “I can go.”

He knew Will had not seen that last sign and the action had the desired effect.  Will approached Lecter and touched his back lightly.  When the older man turned, Will said, _I ok.  Sorry.  Many feelings._   He smiled wryly, meeting Hannibal’s eyes for the merest moment.  _Ambush.  Jack gave me phone and car today.  Too much, too fast.  Understand?_

_Of course._ Hannibal nodded, and touched Will lightly on the shoulder, then squeezed gently when the other man did not draw away.  “Uncle Jack wants you where he can reach you, and call for you to come at his whim.  It is a generous gift, but not one without strings.  I can see why you are feeling overwhelmed today.  On the other hand, it means you can go see Miss Hobbs at your own discretion, should you desire to do so. ”

Abigail Hobbs had not yet awakened from her coma.  She had been transported to a hospital in Baltimore after being stabilized in Minnesota, to allow the FBI to more closely monitor the situation.  Dr. Bloom’s hand had guided the choice; she felt close to the girl, almost maternal.  Hannibal thought she was getting too close to the situation, but had not demurred when Alana had suggested it.  It would be interesting to talk with the child when she awakened, to see what changes the experience had wrought on her young psyche.  Jack Crawford had reasons of his own, Hannibal knew, and was as intrigued by them as by Alana’s maternal possessiveness.

Will had not yet been to see the girl.  Had not left his property since they had returned from Minnesota, not even to debrief at Quantico.  He had immured himself with his dogs and his garden and his fishing stream and nothing had succeeded yet in rousting him.  Hannibal knew that Crawford would not let the situation stand, but he deplored the heavy-handedness of this ploy.  It was unsubtle.

It had, however, gotten Will thinking.  _Not think she want see me.  I kill father._

Hannibal shook his head, moving to sit again.  “You saved her life, Will, even as you orphaned her.  That carries certain emotional obligations, no matter how you isolate yourself.”

_You there too.  You feel obligated?_ Will joined him at table, patting his leg to call Winston over.  He buried his hand in the dog’s fur, and shook his head at the mud he found there.  _Dumb dog._

“I think he needs a bath,” Hannibal signed with a smile.  “And yes, I feel a staggering amount of obligation.  Responsibility.  I fantasize scenarios where my actions might have led to a different outcome for Abigail.” 

Will picked dirt from under his fingernails, then said, _Same me.  Should have talked.  Talked Hobbs down.  Different happen._ He grimaced again, and clarified at Hannibal’s confused expression.  _Things might happen different, if I spoke Hobbs.  I spoke Abigail.  Why I not speak Hobbs?_

Will’s silence was not a mystery to Hannibal, but Will hadn’t yet earned that insight.  “Only you can answer that question, my friend.  Perhaps someday you will.  For now, please know that the mirrors in your mind can also reflect the good in you, and not just the evil you see in others.  Your voice is there when you have need of it.  We may find it together, when you are ready.”

About to reply, Will startled.  He reached into his pocket and drew out his phone.  He read the text, sighed, and handed it over to Lecter.

**Hi, Mr. Graham.  This is Beverly Katz.  Jack wanted me to ask you what you know about gardening.  He is coming to get you.**

“That sounds ominous,” Hannibal said, handing the phone back.  “Would you like me to accompany you and Uncle Jack, wherever it is you are going?”

Relief writ large on Will’s suddenly pale face, he nodded vigorously.  _I go shower.  Back in minute._ The harried, haunted young man vanished into the dim depths of the house, and moments later Hannibal could hear the shower running.  He quickly cancelled his appointments via his own phone, and sent a response to Ms. Katz.  Then he waited, nibbling on a slice of tomato, seasoned with just a bit of salt and pepper.  It was turning into an interesting day.

TBC


	2. Gyromitra esculenta

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From Wikipedia: Although potentially fatal if eaten raw, Gyromitra esculenta is a popular delicacy in Scandinavia, Eastern Europe, and the upper Great Lakes region of North America. Although popular in some districts of the eastern Pyrenees, it is prohibited from sale to the public in Spain. It may be sold fresh in Finland, but it must be accompanied by warnings and instructions on correct preparation.
> 
> Although it is still commonly parboiled before preparation, recent evidence suggests that even this procedure may not make the fungus entirely safe,[1] thus raising concerns of risk even when prepared properly. When consumed, the false morel's principal active agent, gyromitrin, is hydrolyzed into the toxic compound monomethylhydrazine (MMH). The toxin affects the liver, central nervous system, and sometimes the kidneys. Symptoms of poisoning involve vomiting and diarrhea several hours after consumption, followed by dizziness, lethargy and headache. Severe cases may lead to delirium, coma and death after 5–7 days."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should explain my typeface conventions, although I hope they are made clear in the text.
> 
> Italics are used when Will, or anyone else, signs.
> 
> When Hannibal is speaking to Will, alone or in the company of others, he speaks and signs simultaneously, so I write his dialogue in quotations.
> 
> Boldface is for texting, or dream sequences.

There should have been birdsong, and the susurration of wind through the trees. There should have been the crack of branches underfoot, and the rustle of small game in the undergrowth.  There should have been the background murmur of the forensics team, moving among the half-unearthed bodies, sharing banter to stave off nightmares and pass information.

There was only the smell of decay and the musk of the mushrooms, and the gory sight of death in another of its horrific permutations.  

Will swallowed, acid sick in his throat and eyes watering.  He stood with Hannibal at the edge of the police tape, willing his heart to calm.  He wanted to go home. 

Dr. Lecter was strong and real at his side.  He stood in shared silence, looking over the scene with calm eyes.  At length, he held out his arm and drew an elongated circle, then brought his pointed fingers together, and pointed at Will.  _Garden. Same you._   Will throttled a laugh, startled out of his mouth, and glared up at Hannibal.

 _Not same.  Not plant people._   He was grateful for the graveyard humor, and was very glad none of the FBI people could sign.  It helped ground him, center him.  With a deep breath, Will lifted the yellow tape and stepped forward.  Lecter followed, at his right hand.  The older man sucked at signing, but he was improving, and it was easier with him there.  Plus, he was becoming a friend, and it eased Will’s mind to have him close.

The smell was starting to fade into his subconscious.  The sight of the decomposing and mushroom-studded bodies would not pass so easily.  At least his nightmares would be a little different tonight.  Fewer grabbing hands and more zombies, he thought wryly.  Distantly he saw Jack waving everyone away, behind the barrier of plastic ribbon that marked the crime scene, and he let the graves fill his eyes.  Then, heart pounding, he closed his eyes and opened his mind.

Without willing them, his hands formed words.  _I choose this man._ The fresh body filled the shallow grave.  A wagon of dirt was at Will’s side, a shovel sticking out of the mound.  He settled the man in the grave, brushing aside a hair from his forehead and then finding a vein and starting an IV line. He fastened the arm to a length of rebar.  _I not tie him.  I not need to.  He alive, not wake again._ Taking up the spade, he began scooping earth onto the sleeping body.  _He not know he dying.  I not need him know._   He bent and inserted a breathing tube into the slack mouth, taping it securely, then finished the burial.  _This my design._

Opening his eyes, Will looked with pity down at the half-buried man, his victim.  Garret Jacob Hobbs stared placidly back at him, then grabbed his leg.

A scream tore out of Will’s throat, and he scrambled back, falling into an emptied grave.  He struggled out and started running, pushing aside people and branches in his stumbling flight.  His breath was harsh in his throat, which hurt.  Air rasped into his lungs, and his throat buzzed as it escaped.  Still screaming, can’t stop, stop, he will hear, they will hear.  Hobbs will hear.  HE will hear.

Branches slapped at his face, and vines tangled his feet in his mindless flight.  Up a short hill, and down, and deeper into the woods.  His breath was short, and he stumbled, eventually to a halt.

He felt wetness, at his feet, on his face.  Will found himself ankle-deep in a brook.  His chest heaved and his eyes burned.  He couldn’t stop shaking.  He bent, hands to knees, trying to catch his breath.  No smell of death here, only water and green decay.  Splashing water on his burning face, Will rested his eyes on the sunlit dapple on the water.  He crouched and scooped up double handful, drinking deeply from the clear stream. 

On the bank, something moved.  A dark shape, huge and antlered.  A stag stood there, black and calm, scraping the damp earth with its hooves.  Startled to stillness, Will held his breath.  The stag watched him for a long moment and then, as though startled by a noise Will could not hear, it bolted into the trees.  Before Will could rise to follow, it had vanished as though it had never been there at all.

Wading to the shore, Will ran wet fingers through his hair.  He sat on a stone and took off his shoes and socks, wringing out the latter.  He felt mortified, ashamed of his panic, and he wondered if he could find his way back to the FBI team.  Before he could wonder long, however, Hannibal Lecter emerged from the trees.  His bespoke suit looked pristine, as though he had just stepped out of his consulting room, and not like he had been traipsing through the forest looking for an insane deaf man.  He paused at the tree-line and said, _Not ask ok._

Will barked a laugh.  He brought his hand to his lips, then back to touch his other palm.  _Thank you._ He forced his feet into his damp shoes, pocketing his socks.  _Feel stupid.  Jack mad?_

Lecter shook his head.  _Worried._   He sat next to Will on the rock.  _Go back when ready.  What you see?_   As usual, he spoke as he signed; Will felt the rumble of his voice along his arm where it touched Hannibal’s side.  It was comforting to be close, for a change.  Will leaned into the contact, using it to ground himself.  Hannibal stiffened slightly, but relaxed before Will could pull away.  _I no mind._ The older man shifted slightly closer.

Will took a deep breath, drinking in Hannibal’s scent.  Masculine and warm, a hint of spicy cologne, wool and musk and the crisp smell of the forest.  Will let it fill is nose, washing away the last taint of death.  Then he felt Hannibal laugh, and his face began to burn.  He pulled away, but Hannibal stopped him with a touch. _I no mind,_ his friend repeated.  _You smell me?_

Nodding, Will relaxed a bit.  _Smell good.  Feel good.  Feel here._ Hannibal understood, it seemed.  Understood the need Will had to establish his reality just now. 

 _Where you before?_  

The hand on his leg.  The smell of death.  The rotting people, mushrooms growing on every surface, making them things.  Hobbs, staring back at him from his grave.  The grave Will had put him into.  Will shuddered, drawing in, holding himself as though he might shake apart.

 _Too soon.  Take letter back.  Not sane._ His hands were crabbed, trembling, but Hannibal seemed to read them well enough.  He was shaking his head, denying Will’s words before they were half formed.

 _What see, Will?_ The lined, somewhat cragged face was kind, open, calm and professional.  It was a soothing face, not judging.  Not like Jack would judge, or the others.  Everyone judged.  Alana looked at Will and saw a victim.  Jack looked and saw a tool.  What did Hannibal see?

Springing up from the rock, Will started walking back toward the crime scene.  _Not matter what I see.  Want go home now._

^^^

Retreating again.  Hannibal felt disappointed in Will.  He rose and hurried to catch up.  It had been going so well, too.  The young man’s body language, usually closed like a fist, had started to open into intimacy.  Then the ill-timed question had closed him off again.  Hannibal followed after Will, who was striding with angry steps through last fall’s leaves.  Tiny noises came from the deaf man’s throat as he trudged, animal noises, and Hannibal wondered if Will knew he was making them. 

After a few paces, Hannibal realized they were going in the wrong direction.  He hurried a few steps and touched Will’s shoulder lightly.  The younger man startled, his hand reaching to where Lecter knew he kept his sidearm.  Hannibal raised his hands and said, “You are going the wrong way.”  He was in no fear, and indeed the gun wasn’t drawn.  Will gritted his teeth and signed something Hannibal didn’t understand, then raised his arms in an exaggerated question.  “Follow me,” Hannibal said, and led the way.

The noises ceased, replaced by the sound of shuffling feet though leaves.  Then a tiny growl, and Will’s hand touched Hannibal’s shoulder, stopping them both.  _Sorry._

“Stop apologizing, Will.  You will wear your apologies out, and then where will we be?”  Hannibal smiled with gentle humor.  “I should not have confronted you.  Tell me in your own time.  But Jack will have questions.”

 _I know._  

Soon enough, they were back at the yellow tape.  Jack strode over angrily, then looked Will over and calmed down with a visible effort.  “He ok, Doctor Lecter?”

“Ask him yourself, Agent Crawford.  He is right here.”  No one spoke to Will directly, Hannibal noted.  He had seen it before, during the trip to Minneapolis.  It irked him, on Will’s behalf.  From the wry look on Graham’s face, it annoyed him too.

 _Tell Uncle Jack I’m just fine,_ Will said. 

Before Hannibal could translate this, Crawford drew out his phone and began typing.  A moment later, he looked up expectantly.  Will flinched and drew out his own phone.  He read the screen, then nodded and typed something back.  Lecter did not allow the annoyance he was feeling to show on his face.  He wanted Will talking to him, not Crawford, but the FBI administrator had bypassed him neatly.  Lecter thought he might have to help Will lose his new phone, sometime in the near future.

Worse, the act of writing was calming Will.  His breathing had normalized, and his cheeks had some color under that ragged scruff of a beard.  He was even smiling slightly, looking at Crawford between exchanges.  _Wish I got one when Bloom suggested, years ago,_ he said, addressing Lecter at last.  _Better than paper.  Uncle Jack handwriting bad.  Hard read._

“My handwriting is not bad,” Crawford said, affronted but affable.  “My wife reads it fine.”  He continued typing, and Will huffed a laugh at what he read.  Away to the side, the last of the crime scene wagons was departing, carrying their fungated passengers back to the forensic labs of Quantico.  All but one, who was on his way to A&E.  Lecter hoped that one survived; he wanted to speak to him, to know what he had experienced and drink his pain.  Working with the FBI opened whole new vistas in Hannibal’s life; he hoped Will would not retreat further.

It seemed not.  Jack said, “I’ll pick you up tomorrow, Will.”  He was getting good at speaking and typing at the same time.  “Katz and the others should have something for us to discuss then.  Are you going to claim that jeep?  I could take you to the motor pool now, save us both a trip.”  Now Uncle Jack was translating for Lecter, and that did not sit well.

“It seems you are doing fine, Will,” he said, signing quickly.  “My car is still at your house, and I do have patients to see.  Perhaps you could drop us off, Agent Crawford, and Will can pick up the vehicle tomorrow?”  Let Will simmer alone tonight, with dreams of mushrooms growing out of dead mouths and hands reaching out of the dark. 

His face falling, Will’s hands danced signs of contrition and regret.  Hannibal smiled reassuringly.  “It is quite all right, Will.  Remember what I said about apologies.”

There was a loin of long pork waiting for him at home.  Perhaps he would invite Jack to dinner.

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, Hannibal. Will still loves you best.


	3. Grifola frondosa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From Wikipedia: "The sclerotia from which the hen of the woods arises have been used in traditional Chinese and Japanese medicine to enhance the immune system. Researchers have also indicated that whole maitake has the ability to regulate blood pressure, glucose, insulin, and both serum and liver lipids."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you once again, Jay Danger Gray.

Far from invasive, it had been strangely freeing to speak to Jack Crawford as an equal, even at the remove of the iPhone interface.  Will fed the dogs and then called them to him with a whistle to patrol the yard before bed.  He could feel the tug of sleep, but needed to make the circuit at least once before he lay down.  It was a habit, and a comfort.  He had to see for himself that he was alone.

The night was cool, but the grass under his feet still held some of the day’s warmth.  It tickled his bare soles as he walked, a furry rush at his knees and ankles as the dogs followed.  They checked their usual spots, and added to their canine signatures as they passed, marking territory.  Will felt a little like marking his territory, too, but in deference to his civilized self-image, refrained from whipping out his dick and peeing on a tree.  Human invaders wouldn’t smell it anyway, so there was no purpose.

He’d bagged a brace of rabbits earlier, come to nibble on his greens, and they hung now from the porch roof, draining.  He’d skin them in the morning, and put their gutted remains aside for Hannibal.  The dogs had gorged on the entrails, and then Will had indulged himself in baths for each of them.  After that, he finished weeding the garden and picked some almost ripe tomatoes.  The okra was almost up; he wondered if he could find fresh shrimp at the farmer’s market in Fairfax.  It had been a long time since he’d tried to make a gumbo, and he thought Hannibal might appreciate a taste of comfort food from Will’s childhood.

The circuit done, Will washed his feet and went inside.  The dogs followed, picking their spots on the hearth rug according to pack hierarchy.  Winston claimed his usual spot on Will’s bed.  Instead of joining him there, Will sat at his desk and picked up his fly-tying tools.  A half completed Sparkle Dun rested in its clamp.  Will selected a bit of duck feather and began to twist it into place, emerging from the thorax and brushing outward in gentle curves.  He liked wet flies for trout; fishing was one of the few happy memories of his childhood.  His father had taught him, and working on flies brought forth images of sun-baked shoreline and the smell of salt and brine from the Biloxi Marsh.

Lost in the motions, Will almost did not notice when the phone on the desk began to vibrate.  When he did, his hands twitched, and a sharp stab of pain bit his thumb.  Pulling the tip of the hook out, Will looked at the welling blood, then licked it away irritably.  He glanced at the clock.  Two a.m.  The phone was still vibrating, making the table under Will’s elbows buzz.  Wiping his thumb on his jeans, he picked it up.

 **Are you asleep?** The caller ID read “HL”

Will grinned and rubbed his eyes.  He tapped in a response.  **No.  Neither are you, apparently.**

**I was concerned.  I left you a sachet of tea, this morning.  It should help you sleep.**

Touched, Will rose and went into the kitchen.  A small brown bag rested on the counter, with the initials W. G. on the side.  Opening the bag, Will inhaled the scent of the blend.  It smelled like dried grass and flowers.  Taking up the phone, he typed one handed while he set the kettle on to boil.  **What’s in it?  It smells great.**

**My own blend.  Valerian, hops, and chamomile, mostly.  Some lavender for the aroma and one or two special ingredients I order from a supplier in Denmark.  Do not tell Uncle Jack.  I think he would not approve.**

Will laughed.  **Ok.  I will try anything once.  I should tell you, though, that my insomnia is long-standing and most resistant to herbal remedy.  I had an aunt who used to dose me with wild lettuce and kava-kava.  It made me vomit.**

**I should think so.**

Steam rose from the kettle in a steady stream.  Will dumped a generous scoop into the pot and settled in to let it steep.  **Thank you, H.  I appreciate the thought.**

A long moment passed, and Will thought Hannibal might have rung off, but then the phone rattled again in his hand.  **Not at all, Will.  I only hope it helps you find rest.  I am to bed, as well.  It was an eventful day.  Will you require me tomorrow, do you think?  I have a few appointments, but I can reschedule them.  One new patient coming in at 2 I should not put off.**

Remorse, and guilt settled into Will’s mind.  Dr. Lecter had done so much for him already, even if the FBI was picking up the bill.  It would be a comfort to have the other man there, but it seemed unfair to ask it of him.  **I should be ok.  I have those rabbits for you.  Maybe I could drop them by after I finish up at Quan?**

**Quantico?  That would suit fine.  I look forward to seeing you, and showing you my home.**

Will poured out a cup of fragrant tea and set it aside to cool.  **Night, H.  Thanks again.**

**Good night, Will.**

The tea tasted as good as it smelled, and filled Will with warmth and comfort.  He wandered through the house, sipping and turning out the lights.  He finished a second cup while finishing the fly, and had to set aside the work as his eyes started to droop.  The bed swallowed him, Winston curling warm against his back, and he was asleep even as his head touched the pillow.

 

**He lay in cool earth, the taste of honey on his tongue.  Dirt covered him to his chest, and his wrist was caught and pierced.  Hannibal stood over him, smiling faintly, and dropped another shovelful of dirt on Will’s chest.  Behind Hannibal, Garret Jacob Hobbs was burying his daughter.  Abigail turned her head and said, “It’s better this way.  We’ll be able to talk, now.  Our spores will reach out to each other, and we can be together.”**

**“I can’t talk,” Will said.**

**Gently tossing another load of loam, Hannibal said, “You can if you want to, Will.  The structure of the fungus mirrors that of the human brain.  An intricate web of connections.  Don’t you want to connect with others?”**

**Will shook his head.  “Not really.  I tend to disappoint.”**

**In the lea of the tree-line, a voice said, “Not me.  Never me, dearest Will.”  The shape was dark, and Will couldn’t see a face.  “But I would prefer you not speak your lies.  Liar.”**

**The dirt filled Will’s eyes, ears, and mouth.  It tasted like honey and lavender.**

 

Choking, Will woke.  He coughed and gasped, and felt his clothes clinging damply to his skin.  Winston liked his face, and Will recoiled at the contact.  His eyes opened wide and he looked over at the clock.  Four a.m.  Sighing, he rose and stripped out of his soaked clothes and lay back in bed, naked, pulling the sheets over his shivering body.  Sleep pulled at him, but he didn’t close his eyes again.  He felt his eyelids, sandy and clicking, rasp together as he ran his hand over Winston’s warm, clean fur.  His other hand, moving without thought, reached to his abdomen and traced the letters there.  The rest of the night was long and as silent as a shallow grave in the middle of the forest.

 

The forensic lab was as cold and odorous as Will had remembered.  The bodies of the farmer’s victims lay on stainless steel slabs, staring sightlessly up at the florescent lights above.  Will stood to one side, his arms wrapped around his torso, and tried hard to think of a good reason to be here.  Conversation was flying around, and he picked out one word in three, if that.  Occasionally Jimmy, the blond tech, would spell something to him, with his slow and awkward signs, but the others seemed to forget Will’s presence once he’d arrived.  It was driving Will crazy.

No one would reach out to him; he’d have to reach out to them.  Pushing away from the wall, Will went over and taped the dark-haired tech, Zeller, on the shoulder.  Typing quickly, Will showed him his phone.  **Program in your number, please.  And Dr. Price and Dr. Katz.  I need to know what is going on.** He handed the man his phone, impatiently.

Zeller said something to the others, and then tapped in a series of numbers into the contact screen.  He passed the phone to Price, who passed it to Katz.  Zeller was shaking his head, and Price looking embarrassed and annoyed at whatever the man was saying, when the phone made its way back to Will.  He said, _Thank you._  

It took the four a while to get into a rhythm, but eventually the ideas were flying fast once again.  It seemed there was dextrose in the IV lines, and the victims had all died of kidney failure.  Will remembered the sweet taste of honey on his tongue, and shuddered.

Zeller sent a text.  **Recovering alcoholics crave sugar.  No offence J.**

Price smiled and sent back a group message.  **Not recovering, thanks.  Mushrooms crave it, too.  Drink it down like tequila on movie night.  Maybe it’s someone taking revenge on 12-step programs.  Targeting recovering alcoholics, maybe?**

Will shook his head.  **They look too well nourished for that, and body number four has ulcers on his feet, and is missing a few toes.**

 **A feral Shiitake ate them,** Zeller replied.

Beverly shook her head.  **No.  He’s right.  That’s a clean amputation.  Diabetics?**

Will nodded.  Honey on the tongue, and a feeling of ease and languor.  **Diabetic ketoacidosis.  That’s how he’s killing them.  Puts them in a coma and lets them drift into eternal sleep, there in the ground.  Feeds the mushrooms as they soak in the sugar water that is killing them.  They never woke up.  Perfect fertilizer.**

Zeller looked derisive, Price looked intrigued.  Beverly looked impressed.  Zeller typed for a moment, shaking his head, **You can’t know that.  How could he induce a diabetic coma in so many people?  That’s stupid.**

Will barely restrained himself from replying with a universal, but very unprofessional sign which he felt sure Zeller would understand.  **He’s changing their medications.  He’s a doctor, or pharmacist.  He knows where they live and has control over their insulin supply.**

To his right, Beverly nodded.  **It makes sense, Bri.  He switches their dose, follows them home, then picks them up when they collapse.  Buries them and feeds them sugar water to keep them down.**

 **So he can feed the mushrooms,** Price added.  **And we dug up his garden.**

Will started typing a text to Jack.  The farmer, whoever he was, was going to want to plant another crop.  They had the pieces of the puzzle, at least the edges.  They just needed to find a name.

Two of the victims had filled their prescriptions at one pharmacy, in Baltimore.  The others were filled at locations all over the city.  All of them filled by the same man.  Eldon Stammets. 

The raid on the dispensary was surreal.  Will followed behind the first response team, trailing them by the crouched bodies in frozen foods and shocked faces looking up at him from under folded arms.  Jack was standing at the pharmacy counter, his mouth moving angrily, the tech looking afraid and bewildered.  Then Jack ran outside.  Will followed.

The tech pointed to a dark blue car, and Jack threw up his hands, yelling at the man.  There was something about the car that made Will look harder.  It rested wrong on its rear tires, and there was a fetid tang of decay and shit scenting the damp air of the parking garage.  His heart pounding, Will knew what he’d find in the trunk, even if Stammets was nowhere to be found.  He patted Jack on the shoulder, urgently.  Crawford barely turned his head.  Will patted more urgently, tugging at Jack’s coat.

What?  That was clear, even in the dark.  Jack glared angrily at Will and mouthed, What is it?

In answer, Will pointed to the car.  When the big man didn’t move, Will turned and lifted a baton out of one of the SWAT team’s belt, and then shattered the front window.  Jack gripped his shoulder, but Will twisted free and opened the rear trunk.  The smell of compost filled the air.  Will brushed away the filth and uncovered a woman, still alive, wearing an oxygen mask.  Her pulse fluttered under his hand, and he fell away from the car, letting others step in.

It felt like déjà vu.  Just as Hobbs had been goaded into acting precipitously in Minnesota, something must have warned Stammets that justice was nearby, and looking for him.  Will turned away from the EMTs, working to save the poor woman in the trunk, and went back inside the store.  He dodged past milling customers and agents, arrowing for the dispensary.  Price was there, looking down at the pharmacy’s computer.  It appeared to be open to a browser window and, at Will’s approach, Jimmy looked up at him with a face that held annoyance and pity in almost equal measure.

 _What?_   Will said, a finger slashing down over his palm.

In answer, Price turned the screen toward Will.

The browser was opened to a page called tattlecrime.com.  The caption read, “Takes One to Know One,” and showed a picture of Will, mouth open in a scream, flailing away from nothing.  Will felt suddenly cold.

The article had details.  His name.  His previous work in New Orleans.   Will’s vision blurred and he couldn’t take a deep breath.  He read the damning, damned article, scrolling down with shaking fingers.  She’d done her homework.   This Lounds woman had even found his hospital record, and the record of his stay at Central State.  Will found himself on the floor, leaning back against the pharmacy counter, clutching his abdomen and swallowing bile.  She had everything, or at least everything that was public record.  She’d printed his _name_. 

Slowly, after a shaking eternity, he came back to himself.  Will became aware of Jack crouching next to him, holding out a bottle of water.  Will managed to take it, and took a long drink.  He nodded a thank you.  Jack took back the bottle and held up his phone, gesturing with his eyes that Will should look at his.  There he read, **I will fix this.  You are safe.**

 _No.  Not safe.  Never safe.  He knows.  He knows my name._   Crawford’s broad face looked baffled, and he held up the phone again.  In a sudden rage, Will pushed the man away, knocking the phone from his hands.  _Learn sign.  Fuck you, Jack._ Scrambling to his feet, Will stood swaying.  Price looked shocked, and Katz’ face mirrored his.  Zeller looked disgusted, but reluctantly impressed.  Too many people, too many eyes. 

One pair of eyes was welcome.  Hannibal stood at the edge of the group, as calm and unruffled as ever.  How long had Will been sitting on the floor, shaking and mewling like an infant?  Long enough to summon his keeper, evidently.  Recognizing the bitter turn of his thoughts, Will tried to summon a calm to mirror Lecter’s.  It was a useful mirror, and he schooled his expression to match the older man.  Act calm and you will be calm, one of his many school counselors had once advised him.  Will donned serenity as a mask, and felt his stomach settle and his shaking still.

 _Take me home?_ he said, to the group in general.  _Want go home._

 _Not certain safe,_ Hannibal said.  _Your farmer gone, and knows your name.  Somewhere else?_

And Will remembered his dream, of Abigail reaching out to him from her own grave and said, _Hospital?  See Abigail?  Safe there._

Hannibal’s face grew thoughtful, and then he nodded.  _Good idea.  We go._

^^^

After seeing Will safely settled in Abigail Hobbs’ hospital room, Hannibal reluctantly took his leave.  “I would stay, but I have something to take care of.”  Will nodded sleepy understanding, the Xanax Hannibal had slipped into his coffee already taking effect.  “I will be back later.”  The poor boy needed some sleep, after the exertions of the day, and Hannibal had a bone to pick with Freddie Lounds.

The remarkably rude woman had dared to pose as a patient, earlier that very day.  She had recorded a conversation, and then made some snide inferences about his relationship with Will Graham.  Digging for information, even after he had found her out and accused her to her face.  Well, there was room in his larder for a succulent cut or two, and he doubted anyone would miss her. 

Approaching her hotel room, however, he saw the bubble lights of police cruisers and the familiar dark Cadillacs from the FBI’s garage.  He tucked his knives away under his briefcase and watched with frustrated interest as Jack Crawford followed Zeller and a crew of stern looking agents into the hotel room.  He parked somewhat away from the action, turning off his headlamps and sinking down into his seat.  Jack, it seemed, had a similar proprietary interest in the noisome journalist, if she could so be called.  Well, she was safe for tonight, thanks to the FBI.  There was no way Hannibal would act against her now, tonight.  It would look suspicious.

At length, the FBI decamped, vanishing into the night and leaving Ms Lounds to her interrupted rest.  Hannibal wondered where Will’s farmer was sleeping tonight, and if he dreamed of planting more mushrooms.  When the last cruiser pulled away, Lecter went to his own rest.  As usual, he did not dream.

When he awoke, he was lying in a shallow grave in the middle of the forest.  Eldon Stammets stood over him, shovel in hand.

TBC


	4. Auricularia auricula

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From Wikipedia: "The fruiting body is distinguished by its noticeably ear-like shape and brown colouration; it grows upon wood, especially elder. Its specific epithet is derived from the belief that Judas Iscariot hanged himself from an elder tree; the common name "Judas's ear" eventually became "Jew's ear", while today "jelly ear" and other names are sometimes used. The fungus can be found throughout the year in temperate regions worldwide, where it grows upon both dead and living wood."

**There was a stag in the hospital.  He was wounded, leaking blood and dirt on the polished tile.  Will stood up from the couch and followed after.  “Come back!”  The lights dimmed as the beast staggered away, falling to one knee, his proud head brushing the walls and gouging the wall paper.  “Easy, there.”  Will approached cautiously, wary of those razor-sharp antlers, and the stag snorted and blew, shaking his magnificent rack of pitch black horn.**

**Sinking to his knees, Will rested his hand on the beast’s heaving flank.  It was wounded and filthy, with great clumps of mud and blood falling with each stroke from Will’s soothing hand.  “I will help you.  Who did this to you?”**

**The stag opened his mouth, and Will drew back with a yell, falling to the floor.  There were mushrooms growing on the beast’s tongue, crowding his gums, and blooming darkly on his teeth.  Mushrooms fell out in a flood, spores filling the air and going down Will’s throat, and suddenly his own mouth was full of dirt.  He collapsed on the floor, his head pillowed on the stag’s heaving flank, trying to breathe and tasting only honey and death.**

Will jerked awake, and recoiled from the sight of Jack Crawford and Alana Bloom looming over him.  His hands flew up, and he nearly fell to the floor before Jack caught him.  Struggling free, Will staggered to the tiny bathroom and sank to the tile, his stomach heaving.  Bile was better than dirt, but not by much.

Alana crouched on the tile next to him.  Before he could motion her away, she said, _Hannibal is missing.  Stammets attack Lounds short time gone.  You see Hannibal when time?_

In his sleep and nightmare-muddled state, Will barely understood Alana’s signing, but the meaning dawned on him after a moment.  Stammets had attacked Freddie Lounds and now Hannibal was missing.  They had come here hoping to find the psychiatrist, but Will hadn’t seen him since last night.  If he wasn’t answering his phone, he could be with a patient, but they would have gone to Hannibal’s office first to check.  Alana’s fear was a tangible thing, and Will scrambled to his feet.  _Why you think Stammets hurt Hannibal?_

She started to sign an answer, but he lost her syntax quickly.  She was worse than Lecter.  Will turned to Jack and gestured toward the man’s pocket.  After a moment, Jack pulled it out and started typing.  Will moved to watch over his shoulder as the words formed.

**Lounds said Stammets was talking about making connections, about how people share the same properties as a fungus.  He asked about you, and she told him you helped the FBI make connections.  Then she told him about Hannibal, and how you seemed to be disconnected from everyone and everything.  He said he wanted to help you make that connection.  He wants to help you understand.**

Will grabbed his jacket and toed into his shoes.  _He plant Hannibal.  Go garden.  Now._

Stammets’ garden had been in the Sweet Air area of Gunpowder Falls State park, about ten miles from the Beltway.  There was no reason to think the farmer would return to his first plot, but no reason to think he would not.  It was as good a place as any to start.  Will sat in the back of Jack's huge car, clutching his phone and texting with shaking fingers.

**Hannibal?  We’re coming.**

**Answer me, Hannibal, if you are ok.**

**Hannibal?**

**H?**

His fingers felt gritty, and he could smell blood and dirt.  Restlessly, Will checked the clip of his Sig, and then tucked it away again.  From time to time Alana would look back at him and smile encouragingly.  Will couldn’t bring himself to meet her hopeful eyes.  The trip lasted a year.  Hannibal did not respond to his texts.

The park road was rutted, but clear of brush and logs.  They pulled in a short way from the grisly garden’s remains and climbed out.  Before Will could start down the trail, Alana put out a hand to stop him.  _Backup coming.  We stay.  Jack go see._

Will shrugged off Alana’s hand and snarled.  She drew back, startled.  Before she could try to stop him again, he took off after Jack in a sprint.

^^^

Hannibal could not move.  His arms were free; he could see them crossed over his chest, a parody of burial.  Not a parody, though, as dirt covered him to the waist.  Succinylcholine, he thought muzzily, or vecuronium.  Paralytics which did not sedate, as propofol would.  The tube in his throat fed in air, pushing his paralyzed diaphragm, and an IV line fed into his brachiocephalic vein.  His trousers felt damp and he wondered vaguely if he had voided or if it was the damp earth seeping through the thin cotton of his pajamas.  He was cold.

He sun was in his eyes, but he could see a vague shape, looming over him intermittently as the soil was deposited higher on his bare chest.  The dirt trickled down over his shoulders, partially covering his ears.  He felt a strange calm, and thought how fitting this truly was.  A monster slain by another monster. 

An inferior monster, though.  The sleepy calm was burned away by a surge of anger.  If he could move, could rise, he would kill this puling madman where he stood.  He wouldn’t even eat him.  He was diseased, foul, excrement on Hannibal’s foot. 

Letting the rage build, Hannibal channeled it into his hand.  Nothing.  Not a twitch, not a glimmer of motion.  He couldn’t even feel his muscles tighten, or increase his rate of breathing.  He felt like he would gag, felt the saliva trickle down his chin and turn the earth to mud on his cheek.  The dirt filled his ears, covered his mouth, pressing down in a cool embrace.  As the last shovel full was gently placed on his face, he tried to close his eyes, but couldn’t do even that.

The earth grew heavy on him, as the farmer tamped down his planting.  A rambling monotone began, distant and muffled.  “We evolved from mycelium.  I am just reintroducing you to that concept.  Your Will will understand.  He will walk through you and your spores will reach out to him and he will know you.  Truly know you.  Opisthokontum. A merging of Animalia and fungi. A superkingdom. I envy you, Doctor Lecter. Soon, you will know everything.”

Dull thuds through the earth, walking away. Hannibal tried to blink his eyes clear, but he couldn’t. He wished Stammets had covered his face, at least. Wished him to hell, and his mushrooms with him.

A cry, wordless and distant, came filtering through to Hannibal’s clogged ears. A shout of sound without meaning. Then Jack, sharp and precise. “Stammets. Drop the shovel and step away from…from Dr. Lecter.” Horror in Jack’s voice. Hannibal could sympathize. It wasn’t a very palatable situation.

Closer, Stammets shouted a negation, and then a bark of a gunshot, and another. A sudden and heavy weight fell across Hannibal’s torso, crushing him more than the cloying, clinging dirt. Warmth trickled down, seeping through the cold earth and bringing some relief from the chill that seemed to have seeped into Hannibal’s bones. Stammets’ blood, he realized a moment later, and then the weight was lifted away and frantic hands were removing the mulch and compost, clearing Hannibal’s head and bringing him up and out and into the sun once more.

Will’s dear voice, making sounds without meaning, filled Hannibal’s ears even as the young man’s hands gently brushed dirt from Hannibal’s face and eyes. His vision was blurred, but cleared as water was poured generously over his face. If the water also washed away tears, no one would ever know but Hannibal. Will’s own tears were falling like a benediction, warm and soothing as rain.

Jack’s ungentle hands tugged out the IV, stemming the blood with a heavy thumb. The paralytic must have been short acting, because before the EMTs could arrive, Hannibal began to feel responsiveness return to his limbs. The endotracheal tube gagged him, and a feeling overtook him that he must get it out, now, right now. His clumsy hands reached up, but Will batted them away, peeling back the tape and cutting the balloon’s cuff lead with an impatient twitch of his pocket knife. With a deep, throat-tearing cough, Hannibal freed himself from the tube and took great, gasping breaths of fetid air.

All his muscles trembling, Hannibal tried to climb out of what was to have been his grave. He could not do it. Weakly, he said to Will, _Feel like kitten. Help?_

“We should wait for the paramedics, Doctor Lecter,” Crawford said, but Will, dear Will had not of course heard the demur. With strong hands, Graham helped Hannibal to stand, pushing away the clinging, red earth with disgust. He pulled Hannibal’s arm over his shoulder and eased him up and out of the shallow trench, holding him up as he stumbled on still numb feet. A fallen log served as a bench, and Hannibal sank onto it with a sigh. He shivered, his muscles cramping, and was startled when he felt Will’s jacket fall over his shoulders. The coarse cloth was warm and comforting, and Hannibal pulled it snugly close.

A vicious spasm caught his calf, the consequence of the paralytic leaving his system, and he bent to rub the chilled flesh. Will pushed his hands aside once again, and the young man crouched at Hannibal’s feet, kneading the knotted muscle with strong fingers until it eased and relaxed. He followed this up with a similar massage to Hannibal’s other leg, and then his feet. Will’s clever fingers chased the cramps until the EMTs arrived at last, with their IVs of Ringer’s and Potassium. Stammets went into the other ambulance, with Jack riding along. Will followed them to the hospital in Jack’s car, and Hannibal found he missed the silent man’s presence, like a missing tooth.

Monsters don’t dream, but sometimes they have nightmares. The following hours were nightmarish indeed, composed of medical indignities and the rudeness of orderlies and time-harried doctors. His own A&E had been better run, back in the day, but it would do for now. After too much poking and prodding and collecting of evidence, he pulled a few professional strings and made some broad hints. At long last, Hannibal finally found rest one door down from Abigail Hobbs, still sleeping her traumatic sleep.

A plump and pleasant middle-aged nurse helped him to shower, lending surprising strength when needed and silence when requested. She folded away his stinking and sodden pajamas into an evidence bag, and then eased him into a gown, before tucking warmed blankets over him and leaving with an admonition for him to, “Call if you need anything, hon.” As much as Hannibal despised familiarity, he forgave her on account of the blankets, with which she had been generous.

He pulled them up to his shoulders, feeling the last of his shudders subside. Eldon Stammets had almost ended Hannibal’s life today. Would have done if not for Will Graham and Jack Crawford. It was something to consider. Were their actions those of friends? Friendship had never come easy for Hannibal, and he wasn’t sure he trusted himself to recognize it when presented. Surely it was not that, though; Jack and Will had acted out of duty and in the capacity of law enforcement agents, nothing more. They would have done as much for anyone.

The cold was seeping back, despite the blankets’ radiant warmth. Hannibal felt his teeth chatter together, and was confused. He hadn’t felt this cold in years, in decades. Not since his childhood…since Mischa….

He shook his head, denying the thought impatiently. He was in shock, in body if not in mind. Foolishness. He hoisted the blankets higher, up to his ears, and wished the meddlesome, prating, silly nurse had turned off the light. He would have to reach out of the blanket to do so, and let in the cold. So cold, _broils, Hanni, salta, Hanni, As esu salta_ …. Her body had been warm, fragile, and her sweet face pale as they hid. She tried so hard to be good, quiet, but she had been only a child, after all….

“No! Enough!” The sound of his own voice dispelled the shivering phantom, and he reached out and firmly shut off the light, damning the nightmares and willing himself to sleep.

TBC


	5. Pleurotus Nidiformis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From Wikipedia: "The specific epithet nidiformis is derived from the Latin terms nīdus 'nest' and forma 'shape' or 'form', hence 'nest shaped'. Lampas is derived from the Greek lampas/λαμπας 'torch'. Common names include ghost fungus and Australian glow fungus. Drummond reported that the local aborigines were fearful when shown the luminescent fungus and called out chinga, a local word for spirit; Drummond himself likened it to a will-o'-the-wisp."

The cafeteria coffee was actually pretty good, as hospital coffee went. It was strong and hot, anyway, and he supposed the night shift had requested it double-brewed. Maybe even triple. The bitter bite of it, tempered only a little by five cups of non-dairy creamer, woke Will up and helped wash away the lingering taste of dirt and blood. Bleary eyed nurses, their movements slow and quiet from long practice at deep night, wandered through and filled their mugs and Styrofoam cups at infrequent intervals, as staggered break-times came and went. None of them tried to speak to Will, or any of the other late-night visitors.

He nodded to some of these, and some nodded back. An elderly man sat in one corner, sadness and resignation worn like an old fedora. Further away, a young woman wept silently into her own coffee. Two a.m. despair. Will wished he had words of comfort for either, but these two had never nodded back. Their hells were private, as Will’s had always been.

Not so private; Alana walked around and approached Will from in front. She had never touched him, he realized, not in all the years he had known her. Part of him was grateful, but another part wondered why. Was he that damaged, in her eyes, that she thought physical contact would send him into a screaming fit. He huffed in irritation, but had to allow that she had been right in the past. Raising his cup, he saluted her and smiled a tired greeting.

 _Why you not home?_ Alana said, and slipped into a chair opposite. She set down a thick book, a cheerful bookmark sticking out from somewhere in the middle. Noting Will’s gaze, she explained, _Reading Abigail. Abigail book._ Her fingers tangled and she made a moue of apology. _Sorry. Tired hands._

 _No problem. You were reading book for Abigail._ Will gently corrected her syntax. Alana nodded, smiling her gentle, tired, 2 a.m. smile. _Why you not home?_ he turned back her question.

_Not sleep. You?_

_Same. Hannibal and Abigail here. I sleep later._ He would sleep tomorrow sometime, after Hannibal woke up and Will had seen for himself that the other man was well. Maybe he would try to sleep in Abigail’s room again. It was restful there, and there was a guard on the door. He stared into his coffee to avoid Alana’s eyes, and took a long sip.

The woman reached across the table and tapped to get his attention, down in his field of vision. Irritated, but resigned, Will looked up. _Abigail Hobbs success for you. Hannibal too. Not feel sorry._

Surprised, Will shook his head, _Not sorry. Feel…good._ God, but it was strange. _Feel free._

Uncertainly, Alana smiled, and said, _Good. Ok, good._ She picked up her book and waved goodbye, leaving the cafeteria. She looked back once, her expression troubled, then closed the door behind her.

^^^

Sometime after three a.m., Hannibal stopped chasing sleep. His calves twitched like a frog’s legs subjected to live current, and ached deeply. He thought of calling the nurse for pain medication, but did not want to so impair his mind. Instead, he wrapped his blanket around his shoulders and rose. His legs trembled, but held him after the first tentative step. The floor was cold under his bare feet, and his soles cringed. The blanket helped the bare feeling at his back, but his legs felt frigid.

An impulse drew him to Abigail’s room, past the nodding guard. He woke the man, identifying himself, and then went in and sat on the chair next to the girl’s pale, still form. After a moment, he drew up his legs and covered them with the blanket. The ventilator hummed and the pulse monitor beeped a steady rhythm. It was soothing.

A tiny noise drew his attention to the couch. Will Graham sat there, rubbing his eyes like a child up past his bedtime. The younger man smiled and waved a tentative _Hello. You look cold._

Hannibal nodded. Why on earth was the young man still here? Had he no home to go to? He wrestled his arms out of the blanket nest and said, “Do you never sleep?”

Ruefully, the dark-haired man shook his head, then rose and left the room. He returned a moment later with a pile of blankets. Deftly, he swapped out the ones wrapping Hannibal for three which radiated heat. _Nurses like me. Let me raid warmer. Better?_ He tucked the somewhat ragged white and blue blankets around Hannibal’s body and legs, sealing him in a cocoon of warmth and comfort.

With a small grin, one which reached all the way to Will’s eyes, he retreated to the couch with the now surplus blankets and curled up into a corner like one of his dogs. _You look surprised, Hannibal. No one ever tuck you in?_

Struck as speechless as Will, Hannibal only shook his head.

Will smiled a melancholy sort of smile, looking down and away. _Not me, either. Dad not much for tucking. Always thought sounded nice. You look warm, now._

Hannibal was feeling something altogether new, and old, and his chill was banished by an inner glow that matched the outer. He smiled fondly at the young man and untucked his hands. “To my soul, dear Will.” He didn’t think Will saw the signs, though. His bright blue eyes were shadowed, and he looked drowsy. Shaking his head, Hannibal admonished, “Get some sleep. I can stand the watch a while.”

The clock’s hands did not turn a quarter of an hour before they, all three, slept.

 

END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fluff sneaked in there at the end. Hope you liked the ride as much as I liked putting pen to paper.


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